


Lovers' Eyes

by yodasyoyo



Series: Sterek Christmas Fics [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Christmas, Derek Hale has a Christmas birthday, Feels, Fluff, M/M, angst with happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek has a complicated relationship with Christmas at the best of times, Stiles may be the one person who can make it better.</p><p>or</p><p>Five Christmas Days over the years told from Derek's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovers' Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a little break from writing over the holidays, but still had time to write this as a little Christmas ficlet. The summary sucks, but hopefully the fic doesn't! Five Christmas days from Derek's perspective.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely Mountain_ash for the quick beta. You're the best!

-1-

 

Derek sits in the empty bathtub in the ruins of his family home. There's an old pack of playing cards on the sink, the box yellowed with age. A bottle of beer, half drunk, stands balanced on the edge of the bathtub next to a half eaten pack of redvines. He stares at the grimy tiles opposite. At one point they were pristine, he can almost see it on the edges of his memory, but now they are grey, smeared with ash and dirt worked deep into the grouting. This house draws him in and repulses him in equal measure. The ruins of every room steeped in memories and regret. He hates being here, but loves to torture himself with it. His head falls back against the rim of the tub and he shuts his eyes. He picks at the scabs of old memories, until they're raw and oozing. His Dad baking cinnamon cookies on Christmas Eve, Cora waking him at four in the morning to tell him Santa had been, his Mom's smile as she watches them open their gifts, Laura bickering with him over who should eat the last roast potato at dinner.

He swallows thickly and then reaches out, grabs the bottle and takes a swig of beer.

It hasn't rained for weeks, the preserve dry as dust, but now as he sits here alone, he can feel the promise of it. The heaviness of the air around him. He shivers, his skin thrums with anticipation. Still, it's another five minutes before he hears fat drops of rain hitting the weathered façade of the house. There's a crack of lightening and the rumble of distant thunder.

He watches with fascination as the rain starts to drip in through the holes in the roof above him, it finds the gaps in the old timber frame and runs down the tiles. A drop hits his arm, another his leg. Thunder sounds again, a little closer this time, the rain drums against the wood, echoes against the bath tub. Soaks him through to the bone.

They're all gone. Everybody is gone and all he has left is this.

He grinds the heel of his hand into his eyes and blinks furiously.

Merry _fucking_ Christmas.

 

-2-

 

“You seeing Cora tomorrow?” Scott asks apropos of nothing.

Derek shakes his head. She's back in South America, and they're not seeing each other this year.

He and Scott are wandering back through the town late at night, Derek's vaguely aware of the christmas lights twinkling in store windows. He has blood crusting on the front of his henley and a barely healed gash on his arm, he's distracted, unprepared.

Scott sucks in a breath as Derek looks over at him.

“Come to mine.”

“What? Now?” Derek's head is still in the fight. The thing, with the claws and the... teeth. It had been vicious.

Scott nudges him gently with an arm. “No. Tomorrow. Christmas. You should come to mine.”

Derek swallows, his eyes flicker restlessly, settling everywhere, anywhere except Scott.

“I don't-” Derek begins stiltedly, he has no idea how to turn this down. He hasn't had enough experience with kindness to know how to accept it or how to reject it without giving offense.

Scott cocks his head to the side, thoughtfully, “You don't have to worry about gifts or bringing anything,” he says, placing a hand on Derek's arm, “Just bring yourself.”

“I-” Derek begins, still floored by it. Scott isn't paying attention any more though, as he thumbs through the screens on his phone and then hisses through his teeth.

He looks up wincing. “I've gotta go. I was supposed to meet Kira a half hour ago.” He claps a hand on Derek's back. “See you tomorrow yeah? About noon.”

Derek watches him go and then trudges back to where he's parked the Toyota, his feet like lead, his head spinning.

He'll text Scott and cancel.

That's all there is to it.

 

He parks a little way down from Scott's house, and sits in his car, a bottle of wine propped up on the passenger seat next to him.

He's so stupid.

He should've made his excuses.

He still could.

His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.

They don't really want him here; he's not here because anyone actually wants him; he's been invited out of a misplaced sense of duty.

His presence will be an intrusion, but to back out now will be rude.

He exhales, his breath whistling through clenched teeth and closes his eyes.

How quickly will he be able to leave? Will it be bad manners to leave after half an hour? An hour? Two?

Scott hadn't specified what was expected of him when he made the offer and Derek feels a surge of anger towards him now. So _fucking_ thoughtless to make the invitation, to kindly create this obligation when all Derek wants is to be left alone with the sharp edges of his own self loathing.

Derek's so distracted he doesn't hear the familiar cough and rattle of the Jeeps engine until it's along side him. He glances across to see Stiles winding down his window, and looking at him, face pinched with irritation.

Derek presses the button and the window of the Toyota hums down gently.

“What are _you_ doing here?” says Stiles accusingly.

Derek prickles at his tone. “Scott invited me.”

“ _Really?”_ Stiles screws up his nose in disbelief.

Derek feels irritated and relieved in equal measure.

This he knows.

This he can handle.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Derek asks.

“My Dad's working this afternoon. So...” He waves a hand airily.

Derek rolls his eyes. This is all so typically Scott, taking in the waifs and strays. Looking out for people. _Caring._

He grabs the bottle of wine from the passenger seat, and climbs out of his car. Stiles drives down the road a little ways, parking nearer to Scott's house.

They arrive at the McCall front door together.

Stiles knocks loudly as Derek rings the doorbell. They glare at each other. Folding his arms across his chest, Stiles huffs out a sigh. Derek grips the bottle of wine more tightly, fighting an inexplicable urge to smile.

He stays for dinner.

He and Stiles snipe at each other across the roast beef, bicker whilst they do the washing up and then argue about which Christmas film they should all watch later that afternoon. Scott tries to keep the peace. Melissa threatens to throw them all out if they don't shut up.

It's nice.

 

-3-

 

He's standing in the grocery store, poking around the freezer section, looking at TV dinners when he catches Stiles familiar scent. It's unexpected, although perhaps it shouldn't be. The pack are at college now, but it is nearly Christmas, and slowly but surely they're all trickling back to Beacon Hills. All except Scott, Melissa is flying out to visit him this year.

He can tell when Stiles sees him, the slight change in his scent and the uptick in his heartbeat give him away. Derek glances across.

“Yo, Derek.”

“Stiles.”

He's nineteen now, his shoulders broader, his waist leaner, his jawline sharper. He's lost his puppy fat and gained muscle. His hair is a little longer than Derek is used to seeing it, messy, like he's been running his fingers through it. He looks good. Really good.

Derek selects a dinner at random, and shoves it into his basket. Stiles glances down at it. “Those things are terrible for you.”

“Werewolf.” Derek grins sharply.

“Doesn't that just mean you can taste all the weird chemical shit they put in there?”

It does.

He hates it.

He buys them anyway.

Just another small way to punish himself.

“I like it,” he lies.

Stiles scrutinizes him closely, calculating, and under the weight of his stare Derek feels exposed, unmoored. Stiles has always been good at seeing people, what does he see when he looks at Derek? Does he notice the shabby guilt that Derek clings to like a security blanket? Still holding fast to it even though he's made progress in so many other ways.

“What are you doing for Christmas this year?” Derek blurts out, grasping wildly for a change of a subject. Anything to distract.

Stiles blinks. “Uh- Dad has the evening shift, so we're hanging out in the morning, cooking Christmas dinner together, then I'll be eating my body weight in food, collapsing on the sofa and playing Fallout all night while my Dad goes to work. Why?”

Derek shrugs. “Just wondered.” It's the sort of thing people ask. Isn't it? It feels like it is.

Stiles folds his arms, the muscles in his forearms bunching, fingers sinuous and strong.

Derek's heart picks up in his chest, color creeps onto his cheeks. He looks away, he doesn't need anything else to feel guilty about, and Stiles is young. He's too young. Derek has known him too long.

“Are you seeing Cora?” Stiles asks.

Derek had gone out to South America for Christmas last year. Spent a month with her and her pack. It had been good. She's away this year, traveling with friends, Christmas in Fiji, new year in Australia. If he's lucky and she can get an internet connection they might Skype.

“No,” he says.

Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair, his scent bleeding emotion everywhere, he looks unsettled, almost pissed off as he shifts from foot to foot. “You could come to us. Dad won't mind,” he says reluctantly.

Looking at him askance,  Derek raises an eyebrow. “Will _you_ mind?”

Stiles flashes him a grin. “I'll survive. As long as you aren't too much of an asshole.”

Derek proffers a small smile in return. “I have plans, but thanks for the offer.” He turns to leave. He can feel Stiles eyes on him as he walks away, smell his relief and disappointment.

“Fine!” Stiles calls, “Enjoy Christmas in your fortress of solitude, asshole.”

Derek flips him the bird, and hears Stiles laughing softly to himself as he makes his way into the cereal aisle.

 

-

 

He does get a Skype call from Cora on Christmas morning. He spends the afternoon puttering round his apartment in sweatpants and watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine on his laptop.

Stiles texts him at ten that night, just as he's making himself a cup of cocoa.

**Merry Christmas Lonerwolf.**

_Merry Christmas Stiles._

He switches off his phone, puts it to one side, and ignores the warmth spreading in his chest.

 

-4-

 

“What time are we going to the McCall's again,” Cora asks.

“About one,” Derek replies.

She's sprawled on the couch in his apartment, her feet in his lap, flicking through channels on the television.

He turns back to his book.

It feels good to have her here, in his apartment. Makes it feel a little more like home.

She kicks him.

He looks up.

“I said, do we have to bring anything?” She rolls her eyes.

“Drinks,” Derek grunts, “I bought some wine, and it's in the kitchen.”

She curls her toes into the fabric of his sweatpants, digs her nails in a little. “It better not be in a box.”

Derek shakes his head, “I bought bottles, it came recommended, it's supposed to be good.”

She nods and goes back to watching the television.

 

-

 

Scott grins at them when they arrive, “Hey guys- glad you could come. Merry Christmas!” He kisses Cora on her cheek, claps Derek on the back and takes the bottles of wine.

They trail after him into the living room. Sheriff Stilinski sits on the couch, nursing a beer, and looks up as they enter.

“Merry Christmas, Hales,” he says, eyes crinkling in a smile.

Cora grins, and nabs a seat next to him. She gets on well with the Sheriff. Derek's gaze darts about the room. If the Sheriff's here than that means... his heart picks up in his chest, his palms start to sweat.

“Derek.” Stiles is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded, a knowing, almost fond smile on his face.

“Stiles.” He drifts towards him helplessly. It's his final year at college and there's no trace of the boy Derek remembers left now. He's all lean lines and self assurance.

“Scott said you might show. I wasn't sure. There aren't many dark corners for you to lurk in here.” He smells good, so good, and all Derek wants to do is bury his face in his neck and inhale greedy lungfuls of his scent. He wants to wrap his arms round him and hug him. He wants to push him against the door frame and grind up against him until they're both a panting, sticky mess. He wants... he wants... but he’s used to wanting things he can't have, so he buries the impulse.

Instead he smirks, “It was fail at lurking here or brood back at the fortress, but Cora wanted to come out. So...” He shrugs.

Stiles lets out a surprised bark of laughter and then smiles, wide and genuine.

Derek's heart stutters in his chest.

 

-

 

It's all going quite well. It's just the six of them. Everyone else in the pack is with their respective families this year.

Derek's chatted to everyone, had a drink, helped a little in the kitchen. He's managed to not make a complete fool of himself with his feelings for Stiles.

In the last couple of years he's gotten good at it, deflecting attention, carefully treating Stiles like he treats everyone else, not letting his gaze rest to long on him, keeping his face impassive, carefully concealing how happy he feels, how relieved he is when Stiles is around.

It all goes wrong once they're sitting down to Christmas dinner, Scott has carved the ham, their plates are piled high with food.

“Before we eat, I just wanted to say... thank-you all for coming, we're family and it means a lot that you're all here. So Merry Christmas!” Scott beams round the table beatifically and raises his glass.

“Merry Christmas!” everyone replies, “and happy birthday to Derek!” Cora adds pointedly.

A palpable silence descends on the table. Derek feels heat creep into his cheeks. He doesn't need to look to know everyone's staring at him.

“Derek,” Melissa says, “It's your birthday today? Scott why didn't you say something?”

“I didn't know Mom!” Scott sounds guilty.

There's a brief silence, it feels like it last years.

“Happy birthday son,” the Sheriff says with gruff sincerity.

“Th-thanks.” Derek murmurs, heart hammering in his chest. He chances a glance up and glares at Cora.

She's looking at him puzzled.

He won't let himself look at Stiles. 

That awkward, slightly guilty silence lingers.

In one fell swoop he's killed the conversation, the mood... everything.

He stands abruptly, not looking at anyone. “I'm just- I,” he gestures, “need the bathroom.”

He flees, up the stairs.

As soon as he leaves he can hear the hissed whispers of conversation breaking out round the table.

“I feel so bad-”

“He never said anything-”

“So wait- you guys didn't know when his birthday is? All these years and not one of you thought to ask or anything?”

“I would have gotten him a present or a card or something if I'd known.”

“Oh God this makes so much sense. Of _course_ he's a christmas baby. _Of course._ ”

That last one is Stiles.

Derek closes the bathroom door behind him and makes his way over to the faucet. Runs the tap and splashes cold water on his face.

He hasn't even thought about his birthday in years.

Hasn't wanted to.

He's messed up too many times to feel there's much to celebrate about surviving another year.

 _Fucking_ Cora.

Who invited her here anyway?

There's a knock at the door.

He ignores it.

There's another knock.

“I know you're in there Derek.”

Stiles.

Derek wipes his hands on his jeans, schools his features into a carefully blank mask and opens the door.

He makes to walk past, to go back downstairs, but Stiles puts a hand out to stop him. The pads of his fingers lightly touch Derek's chest and all the air flies out of Derek's lungs. He stills. He couldn't move now if he wanted to.

“Kind of an asshole thing to do. Not telling anyone,” Stiles says.

Derek could point out that left to him, none of them would be any the wiser. That it's his choice not to celebrate his birthday. The unnecessary guilt everyone is feeling now is on Cora, not him. Instead he looks at Stiles. “I'm kind of an asshole though, aren't I?”

A smile flickers briefly at the corner of Stiles' mouth. “Are you?”

He pushes his fingers against Derek's chest a little, and Derek steps back, hitting the frame of the door.

Derek swallows, there's something in Stiles eyes, an expression he can't quite parse.

“You're so _fucking_ irritating with your martyr complex you know that.” Stiles' words should be harsh, but there's no heat to them. They sound almost tender.

Derek can't look at him, he's so close, the lush scent of him, the trip of his heartbeat, the feel of his fingers burning through Derek's henley. He's already overwhelming Derek's senses. He can't look at him. He'll have nowhere to hide if he does.

“I didn't get you a birthday present,” Stiles says, voice low. Derek can feel his gaze boring into him.

“It's okay. I don't really celebrate it so-” Derek manages. “I should-”

“What if _I_ want to celebrate it, asshole,” Stiles says, stepping a little closer. “What if _I_ want to celebrate _you_?”

Derek looks at him then, gaze flickers down helplessly to Stiles lips, then back up to his eyes. He can't quite believe what he sees there, maybe he hasn't been the only one hiding in plain sight all this time.

He reaches up, strokes a hand through Stiles' soft brown hair. Stiles closes his eyes, arching into the touch.

“Dumbass.” Stiles mutters, and tilts his head for a kiss.

It's soft, almost chaste. A tentative question, sweet dissonance against the brash, confident front Stiles puts up all the time. Derek leans into it, feels the gentle pressure of his lips, the scratch of his stubble, the hot puff of his breath against his lips.

It's perfect.

They break apart reluctantly.

 _“Fuck,_ ” Stiles mutters reverently, blinking at him owlishly. He looks drugged, wrecked, as blissed out as Derek feels.

“Fuck,” Derek agrees, voice hoarse.

Stiles reaches a hand out, brushes it through Derek's hair, trails a finger down his jaw follows the line to the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Can I just...” he leans in again.

“Yeah," Derek breathes.

This kiss is different, deeper, more assured. They press into each other, bodies moulding together desperate and eager, hands clutching at each other, bunching in clothes and then smoothing over bare skin. Stiles swipes his tongue into Derek's mouth and Derek can't help the moan that escapes him. It's too much, and not enough and everything all at once. He can feel the hard press of Stiles' dick against his hip, the rough pad of his fingers moving along the knobs of his spine, caressing the bare skin and edging along the elastic of his underwear, sneaking under to caress the swell of his ass. Derek shudders at his touch, just this, and he feels undone, he's never going to last.

Stiles worries his teeth against Derek's lower lip and sighs. _“Fuck,”_ he breathes, thrusting his hips a little, “I have _thought_ about this.”

“Are you boys finished up there?” calls Melissa. “Your dinner's getting cold.”

They spring apart guiltily, even though there's no-one there to see them.

“Yeah--- sorry--yeah Mel. We'll be right down.” Stiles says, voice cracking slightly.

Everyone stares at them as they take their places back at the table. Derek refuses to let himself blush. The werewolves present have probably heard everything. They can smell the arousal on them both, it's pointless to be embarrassed.

Cora smirks at him, knowing and infuriating.

The Sheriff fixes a despairing gaze on the stubble burn on Stiles neck.

Stiles is scarlet cheeked but defiant.

“Well,” Melissa says, clearing her throat, she takes a sip of wine, “Looks like it's turning out to be a very happy birthday for you after all Derek. I'm so pleased.”

 

-5-

 

He's woken up by the feel of Stiles' lips pressing tender kisses to his chest, running his hands slowly along Derek's sides, up and along his arms. Trailing those sinful fingers across his body, each touch a firm, gentle assurance. His breath hot against Derek's skin.

Derek shivers. “Wha-?” he mumbles, brain sleep stupid.

Stiles pauses in his ministrations, looks up, raises a sly eyebrow. “Awake now, babe?”

Derek stretches cat like, the sheets tangle round his hips, he arches upward, chasing the sensation of Stiles' touch.

Stiles kneels over him, cups his jaw and gives him a sloppy open mouthed kiss, his fingers return to their well worn paths, skating over Derek's body in veneration. It's almost too much, and now that he's more fully awake Derek tightens his arms around Stiles, flips them until he's over his boyfriend. He presses kisses on Stiles' cheek, along his neck, nipping at each beauty mark he finds in adoration.

Later, their families will come; later their pack will arrive at their apartment. Later they'll be bickering in the kitchen over hosting their first Christmas together. They'll be serving food to their friends and loved ones and pretending to fight over who washes up.

It will be good, he's looking forward to it.

Stiles arches under him, as Derek sucks a bruising kiss into the crook of his neck, his hips shift restlessly seeking friction.

Later everyone will be here, and it'll be warm and complete and _family._

Now though, what matters is what's here, in this moment, and that is just for them and it's everything he's ever wanted.  
  
Lying there in the afterglow he can't believe that he get's this.

Later, they pad into the kitchen, and switch on the Christmas tree lights. Stiles cooks up breakfast and Derek makes some tea. They sit next to each other at the table, side by side, the press of  Stiles’ body a comforting warmth against his own. Derek can’t help the smile spreading across his face as contentment unfurls in his chest.

Stiles reaches for his hand and clasps it warmly, eyes liquid gold, he leans over and kisses Derek’s cheek,  “Merry Christmas Derek, and happy birthday too.”

 

-Fin-

 

I [tumble](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/yodas-yo-yo) do you?

Title for this fic is from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xWNq89joPrI) song by Mumford and Sons. Which gives me many many Sterek feels.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are waiting for an update to my HP/TW AU. That is happening. I have not abandoned it. I just wanted to get this little offering out in time for Christmas.
> 
> Thanks to all the lovely people who have been so wonderfully supportive leaving kudos and lovely comments, since I started writing in this fandom this year. This fic is for you. Every last one of you. Happy Christmas xx


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